


Ups and Downs

by smallsteps32



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:12:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1516913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallsteps32/pseuds/smallsteps32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the meme:</p><p>Douglas is actually (undiagnosed) manic depressive. His highs are really high, but his lows are really, really low. And since he wouldn't be able to fly if he sought mental health help, he finds ways to deal with it on his own.</p><p>http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/6625.html?thread=13237729#cmt13237729</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ups and Downs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello - first of all, welcome to the fic.
> 
> Second of all - I know that this subject matter is sensitive. I am in no way an expert, so if I have got anything wrong, please let me know, I'll be happy to listen to feedback and criticism.
> 
> Third of all - I hope you enjoy it.

UPS AND DOWNS

Another day brought with it another dreary flight back to Fitton late in the afternoon. Everyone on board was a little bit tired, a little bit bored, and a little bit irritable after being locked in a metal tube together; nobody more so than Douglas Richardson, who would have much preferred to have his feet up, a glass of something he couldn’t have in his hand, and absolute silence.

However, Douglas wanted to pretend that the droning of the engines wasn’t soporific, and that he wasn’t tumbling into the first dregs of a headache. He wasn’t in quite a bad enough mood that he didn’t _want_ to be in a good mood…and nothing put Douglas in a good mood quite like watching Martin flail his way to failure.

“Come _on_ , Douglas.” Martin begged, red faced and frustrated, hat tipped back from all the times that he had pushed his hand through his hair; he had one hand gripping the arm of his seat as he glared at the cheese-tray resting between them, “You already won my breakfast…I’m _hungry_.”

“I’m not withholding the cheese, Captain.” Douglas replied, unable to keep a flicker of a smirk from lightening his mood just a tad; he curled his hand through the air and continued to laze back in his seat, using nonchalance to hide the fact that he couldn’t be bothered to adjust his slump, “By all means, help yourself to your spoils.”

“I don’t want _that_ cheese.” Martin pouted, tipping his nose into the air.

“So you’re hungry, but you’re only hungry for _my_ cheese.” Douglas drawled, turning his head away from the scorching rays of Martin’s prissy fury to stare out into the ever-darkening expanse of the sky, “Do you see the problem?”

“I see that you’ve got the brie.” Martin replied curtly, dropping back against his seat with a thud, although he didn’t give up. The man never gave up. He just sat there in silence and held grudges until he didn’t get his own way.

“Quite so.” Douglas stole a glance at him and was bolstered by the look on the Captain’s face. The cheese between them was nothing special, but there was a certain pleasure in the routine of victory, of letting the promise of success dangle in front of him before giving in.

“There’s got to be a way that I can win it back.” Martin muttered, rubbing his hands together like some sort of scheming rat; almost swivelling in his seat, he reached out and rapped his knuckles on the edge of Douglas’ chair, “I’ll play you for it again.”

It might have been funny to let Martin dangle just a little longer, but…it also might have lightened the mood in the flight-deck if Martin was happy. His smugness was grating, but it meant less stress in the long run.

“Oh _fine_.” Douglas sighed, making a show of rolling his eyes and plucking at the edge of the cheese tray as if he were pining for it; that was sure to trick Martin into playing some more and staving off the silence, “If you’re really that _desperate_ for the brie, I suppose I can play you again.”

Martin let out a high-pitched sound of triumph and clapped his hands together, shoving his hat down atop his head, shifting and rotating the cheese tray so that the brie lay nearer to him. Before Douglas could propose another round of their game, the flight-deck door swished open and the small space was invaded by the clomping footfalls of their steward.

“Hi chaps.” Arthur bustled in with as much fervour as he always did, unimpeded by the hours that he had been milling around the foreign airfield; he flung his arms around the back of each pilot’s chair, grinning all the way, and then paused and pointed at the cheese tray, “Are you not eating that?”

“Yes, I am!” Martin squawked, and then reined himself in, shaking his head, “But I can’t yet – it’s not mine.”

“Oh.” Arthur drooped for only a moment before his unnatural enthusiasm returned in full force with a joyful bounce in his stature, “Are you playing for it?”

“That we are, Arthur.” Douglas answered, tipping his head back so that he could look at him without having to sit up properly.

“Can I play for it?” Arthur asked.

“I’m afraid Martin’s already set his heart on it.” Douglas shrugged his shoulders and wound his hands together over his gut; nevertheless, he couldn’t help but be proud of how quickly Arthur had caught on, so he made an effort not to let him down, “However, we _do_ have this squidgy one set aside for you.”

“Aw, brilliant. Thank guys.” Arthur beamed and wasted no time in retrieving the squidgy one and feeding it into his mouth with all the grace of an elephant, before he stopped abruptly and spoke as if on an afterthought, “Oh – Mum’s coming. She’s got an announcement.”

“Oh god.” Martin murmured, leaning in ever so slightly so that only Douglas could hear him, not that Arthur would have noticed, distracted as he was; there was a playful glint in his eyes, “Not an announcement.”

“How frightened should we be?” Douglas inquired, raising his voice enough that Arthur _could_ hear; this time he _did_ adjust his posture, sitting up and slipping his feet from the control panel. He glanced around for his hat, but he wasn’t sure where it had fallen after he had abandoned it half-way through their third game.

“Well, she was talking on the phone and then she was smiling.” Arthur explained with an either-or sort of expression, far more focused on licking his sticky fingers, “So…it’s probably not something that you’re going to like.”

The flight-deck door swung open and Carolyn marched in, carrying with her the daunting fanfare of a Knapp-Shappey wearing a shark-like grin.

“Evening pilots!” Carolyn declared as she waved Arthur out of the way and took up his position between the seats; her good mood was terrifying, “I hope neither of you have plans on Tuesday.”

“Who makes plans anymore?” Douglas remarked, rolling his eyes for Carolyn’s sake but looking past her to catch Martin’s eye. His Tuesday plans consisted of lying in bed until after noon, cooking a ridiculously and pointlessly lavish lunch, and then doing nothing at all, all on his own.

Whatever it was, they would be doing it whether they wanted to or not; they might as well have some fun out of it.

“Not me.” Martin scoffed, blushing as he smiled and adjusted his epaulets, “I just sit at home a-and wait to be summoned.”

“Hmmm.” Douglas agreed, nodding severely, smirking as the urge to tease became too much to handle and he shot Martin a quick wink, “Like the ghost in the attic that we all know you are.”

“If you’re quite done.” Carolyn sighed, eagle-eyed gaze sweeping over the two of them as silence fell; the smile returned to her wrinkled face and she raised her hands in a sign of authoritative placation, “I’ve booked you both in for another course – not _quite_ like the SEP course, so don’t give me that look. It’s not compulsory.”

“Then why are we doing it?” Douglas asked, sitting up a little straighter, turning all the way around in his seat, trusting that Martin would keep one eye on the controls. The only thing more miserable than sitting at home alone was being paraded around in front of people that were judging everything about them.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Carolyn trilled, the ultimate warning light, far brighter than any faulty ground-proximity alert, “Did I say ‘not compulsory’? I meant, not compulsory for pilots, but I’ve booked you in for CAA brownie points so you’re going to do it.”

“Do what?” Arthur piped up, trying unsuccessfully to shuffle into the front of the flight-deck with them, instead ending up perching on the jump-seat.

“You don’t have to do anything, Arthur.” Carolyn informed him, sparing him a fleeting glance before turning back to coo in Douglas’ ear, “The pilots however have to go and prove to some officials that they are still good pilots.”

“We _are_ good pilots!” Martin insisted, indignation raising his tone above his usual reedy tenor as he too turned away from the sky. Perhaps not the best thing for the Captain of an aircraft to do.

“Then you’ll have no trouble proving it.” Carolyn promised sweetly, patting his shoulder, “All you have to do is do some knowledge tests, a few protocol seminars, a physical exam, a psych evaluation, possibly a run in a simulator…the sorts of things you did when you were getting your license.”

“Oh…well, that’s not too bad.” Martin noted, suddenly chipper again, hat back in place, swallowing hard and fighting a blush. He was probably enjoying the prospect of shining in exams.

It _was_ that bad. Just like that, Douglas’ mood dropped back to the miserable baseline that it had rested on when he had woken that morning in the grotty hotel.

“Why are they doing a psych evaluation?” Douglas inquired quietly, measuring his tone and doing his best not to sound too interested. In fact, on second thought, he might have been _too_ quiet. He was normally louder than that, more obtrusive…then again, perhaps he was wrong. He wasn’t often the one to overthink things.

“Because it’s part of the package.” Carolyn replied briefly, batting a hand through the air. She didn’t seem to notice anything was off, not that that made the first prickles of anxiety under Douglas’ skin abate.

“Wait, hold on.” Martin shifted, brow furrowing, and hooked an arm over the back of his seat as he blinked up at Carolyn; he drew his bottom lip between his teeth as the cogs in his head visibly turned, “We get back from the trip to Venezuela on Tuesday morning.”

“The course is on Tuesday afternoon.” Carolyn assured him, business-like once more, “Sleep through the morning and turn up on time.”

“Are you sure I can’t go?” Arthur asked, still attempting to get an edge in the conversation, leaning and unbalancing himself atop the jump-seat, “It sounds like it might be fun.”

“You’re not a pilot.” Carolyn sighed, frowning as she addressed him, hands moving to her hips as she adopted an air of long-suffering patience, “If you go you’ll just be sitting there with nothing to do.”

“Why do we have to go at all?” Douglas demanded, doing his best not to huff or make a fuss, or to even grit his teeth in frustration; arguing never normally won him anything at work, but he couldn’t stop himself, unsettled as he was, “You said it wasn’t compulsory.”

“It will make us look more professional.” Carolyn explained, fixing him with one single stare before carrying on just as airily as before, “I want you to go, so you’re doing it.”

“Maybe I have plans.” Douglas muttered and sank further into his feet, tearing his eyes from her so that he could wallow and wind his hands together more tightly. It was almost painful, and he _didn’t want to do_ the bloody course.

“Who makes plans anymore?” Carolyn parroted his own words and just as she must have intended, they cut like a knife.

“ _Carolyn.”_

“It doesn’t sound too awful, actually.” Martin remarked, and Douglas could have slapped him for the tentative but companionable smile on his face and the way that his blue eyes searched his out as he stammered and shrugged in a facsimile of nonchalance, “I-I mean, I convinced Swiss Air I was okay, so this shouldn’t be much harder.”

Of course, Martin wouldn’t give up another chance to show off after his success at Swiss Air. He may have turned the job down but months on he was still proud of himself…which was fair enough…but not if he was dragging his colleague under the bus with him.

There had to be some way to get out of the tedium.

“Yeah, exactly.” Arthur was talking away in the background, and Douglas only half listened as he waffled on, cheerful as ever, “You’re both so good, you could just use this as a chance to show everyone how good you are.”

“Precisely.” Carolyn agreed, “Fan your egos, show off your skills – whatever you do, _don’t_ _miss that course_.”

“Surely you can book another if the flight back is delayed.” Douglas retorted, although he hoped that the answer was no. He hoped that there would be a way to miss the course and pretend that it had never existed, to avoid being inspected and picked apart.

Any other week would have been fine, but not this one. It wasn’t a good time, not when the dreariness was all-encompassing.

“No, I can’t.” Carolyn brushed him off, thwacking the back of his head with the back of her hand, “This was their only free slot for months, and I’m not wasting it.”

When Carolyn left the flight-deck, Douglas fell silent and let the droning of the engines, the redundant conversation between Martin and Arthur, wash over him while he thought. That was it. The course couldn’t be rebooked.

If they missed this one, there wouldn’t be another.

oOoOoOo

Wandering around the airport in Venezuela, Douglas had to admit that he had hit a wall. There simply wasn’t a good reason to delay the flight home – not one that he could manufacture without anyone realising that it was him. No bad weather, no plane faults, no sudden illnesses, no unusual fees left unpaid…there was nothing to allow GERTI a few more hours before take-off.

But Douglas couldn’t go to that course. There wasn’t a single thing in the world that he wanted to do less. More than that, the mere thought of going through all of the tests and evaluations made something clench in his gut, calling back a certain sense of angst that he hadn’t felt in _years._

Which meant that there was only one choice. It pained him to the very core, but Douglas couldn’t think of another option. He just had to hope that the trust that had grown between them was strong enough to warrant such a _massive_ favour…

Martin would never let him live it down…but Martin’s scorn had a limited life-span. Some things did not.

It would be worth it.

Douglas cornered Martin in the exact spot that he knew he would be occupying; the far corner of the pilot’s lounge, nursing a glass of water and a hand-scrawled copy of the flight-plan. It was his home turf, where he was comfortable and amicable and likely to listen to his only friend amongst many other pilots that wouldn’t pay him the time of day.

That didn’t make grovelling any less painful.

“Martin, I need your help.” Douglas announced as soon as he lowered himself into the seat opposite Martin’s. He made a point of sitting forwards with his elbows on his knees, creating the impression that this was a professional scheme, nothing to pay too much attention to.

“What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Really?” Martin retorted, placing his flight-plan on the chair beside him  and folded his hands over his knee, fixing Douglas with the prissy expression that was endearing on a good day, and infuriating on a bad day, “Because you only ask for my help when you’ve done something wrong…or if you’re planning on doing something wrong…and just insane.”

“I haven’t done _anything_.” Douglas promised, as smoothly as he could; it didn’t always work, almost never with Martin, but every now and then he could use their friendship as leverage, “I just need your help.”

“Doing what?” Martin narrowed his eyes at him, suspicion colouring his tone. As Douglas leaned in conspiratorially, Martin leaned back until he was pressed against the back of his seat.

“Delaying this flight.” Douglas explained, cutting him off when Martin’s eyes blew wide and his mouth fell open to argue; if he did it quick, there was less time to question his motives, “Don’t interrupt – I’ve already tried everything I can think of, but the only way we’re going to be late back into Fitton is if the Captain stalls.”

“Late?” Martin repeated, then he nodded slowly and a smirk spread across his lips, “Oh – _oh_ , I _see_. You don’t want to go on the course.” He sat forwards abruptly so that he could interrogate further, trepidation gone in a flash, “What is it? _Do_ you have better plans, hmm?”

“No, I just don’t want to go.” Douglas replied, measuring his tone…patience…that was all he needed…patience…then he wouldn’t have to beg.

“Why not?” Martin demanded.

“Because, _Martin_ , I don’t want to.” Douglas reiterated, doing his best not to grit his teeth or wring his hands together. Honesty was the best policy…better than bludgeoning his Captain, by any means.

“Well, _Douglas,_ I’m not helping you unless you give me an answer.” Martin practically preened with the power that he thought he held; he was occasionally more perceptive than he appeared, and infinitely more professional, “Or at all…i-it might actually be nice to see you jumping through hoops for once.”

“ _Martin_.” Douglas seethed, steadying a faint tremble before it emerged and shifting his posture, “I don’t want to go due to deeply personal issues that I don’t want to discuss on a whim.”

He would if he had to, though. Letting Martin lord it over him was horrible, but he could endure that if it meant missing the course.

“Like what?” Martin exclaimed; he exhaled as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders and altered his approach, pleading instead of ordering, “Come on, tell me. What’s so important that you can’t come and do some silly little tests?”

Honesty. That was how to get to Martin’s soft, squishy core. He was getting sly enough to know when he was being lied to and Douglas was at the end of his tether. Somehow, it was easier to convince him to join in with fun schemes, but harder to get him to do _anything_ vaguely _helpful_.

“I don’t know whether I’ll pass them all.” Douglas admitted, dropping down to a whisper and stealing a glance over his shoulder towards the rest of the room.

Mercifully none of the other pilots were paying them any attention, even though Martin’s voice was like a fog-horn.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Martin scoffed, flushing a deep red as he embodied bewildered derision, touching his hat, his stripes, refusing to lower his voice or let the matter drop no matter how much Douglas scowled at him, “You think you’re going to fail a test? _Douglas Richardson_ is afraid of failing a test? You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to take me at my word and help me delay our flight.” Douglas took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the darkness keep him from flicking Martin in the face as he dug his nail into his palms.

“No.” Martin refused, shaking his head and leaning in to prod a finger under Douglas’ nose, “Not unless you give me a-a damn good reason-”

“ _I might not pass the psych evaluation_.” Douglas hissed, then bit his tongue as he sat back and folded his arms, chest hitching just once as he got his temper in line. Honesty…honesty would get him what he wanted. There would be no tests, and Martin would be a good enough friend to play along…

“ _What_?” Martin finally lowered his voice, although a stunned gasp wasn’t quite what Douglas had wanted.

“Martin…you of all people understand why I wouldn’t want to risk losing my license.” Douglas muttered, returning to lessen the gap between them so that he could look into Martin’s eyes; it was physically painful, like a pang in his chest, but the damage done was far better than what he might have to endure, “Now _please_ …just help me miss that course.”

“No…n-n-no, hold on!” Martin’s face was contorted with confusion and he splayed his palms in the air; he shifted to the edge of his seat as if to reach out and grasp Douglas’ shoulder, “You can’t just tell me – t-tell me something like _that_ , and then brush it off.”

“I just told you something deeply personal and embarrassingly intimate.” Douglas sighed, turning his back on the rest of the room so that he could implore him, “Is that not enough?”

The honest approach must have worked, because Martin froze. His eyes searched Douglas’ face and he let out a ragged breath as his mouth fell open. Martin pushed a hand through his hair, knocking his hat from his head, but he didn’t bend to pick it up.

“Oh god, you’re not lying.” Martin gaped, and for a moment it was as if he were looking straight through Douglas to the wall beyond; when he finally looked Douglas in the eye, the bridge of his nose was pinched and he sounded almost lost, “Wh-why wouldn’t you pass?”

That was it. Douglas knew that he had won. He could have made his excuses then and tried to make reparations…but Martin wouldn’t let it lie. Martin could be trusted. Martin had been sympathetic when he heard about Helena…Martin wouldn’t let him down…Douglas hoped.

“Martin, I’ll tell you everything…in Fitton…if you help me.” Douglas reasoned, pressing his hands together in a facsimile of prayer, hoping that Martin would recognise his desperation, “Please, Martin.”

“Okay…o-okay.” Martin nodded and sagged, pressing his hands over his face; he didn’t look happy, but he was playing along, which was the best thing that Douglas could have hoped for, “Alright, I’ll…I-I-I’ll change the flight plan so that we get back in the afternoon.”

oOoOoOo

In the end, Douglas told Martin everything. He waited until they were alone in the Cabin, sitting on opposite sides of the aisle. There was no prevarication, no clever lies. Douglas just told Martin exactly why he didn’t want to take the tests.

Martin deserved that much after he had silently and bravely endured every ounce of rage that Carolyn could throw at him. He hadn’t even tried to divert the blame…he was every inch the Captain that he wished he were, and Douglas couldn’t withhold the truth from him.

“You think you’re bipolar?” Martin asked, for once bereft of anything but weariness after a long day and a thorough verbal thrashing. He was in only his shirt-sleeves, hat removed, watching Douglas from across the aisle as if he were paused on an inhalation, waiting for a punchline.

“That’s what I said.” Douglas muttered, slumped sideways against his seat, hat in his lap where he could turn it between his hands in an uncharacteristic demonstration of nerves, to prevent an even _greater_ show of anxiety. Other than that, he was steady and…resigned.

This was it. The moment of judgement or ridicule…or disbelief. Something grim settled in Douglas’ stomach and weighted the rest of his spirit.

“R-right.” Martin stammered, having resigned himself to polite professionalism; he gnawed on his lip, ran his hands up and down his wrists, and moved with a sluggishness that only came with the slow grinding of understanding, “What makes you think that you’re bipolar – in fact, _how long_ have you thought this?”

“Oh, years and years.” Douglas replied dryly, hardly bothering to move, “There was…there was a passenger, back when I was a strapping young man flying for Air England, and she…she was a psychiatrist. Me and the lads took her to a bar, and while they were describing me to try and win her over to my side…she remarked that some of my personality traits could also be considered warning signs.”

“That doesn’t seem very professional.” Martin remarked, with an irritable lilt.

“She was very drunk at the time.” Douglas let out a sharp laugh, but it didn’t touch his mood, “But I…I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I did some research… _a lot_ of research actually and…I became _quite_ sure that I’m more than probably bipolar.” Douglas met Martin’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders, clinging to a sense of casualness for comfort, “Does that satisfy you, Captain?”

“No! No, Douglas, it doesn’t.” Martin insisted, high-pitched and shrill as he shook his head and pouted at the thought; when he calmed, he inhaled a deep breath and asked delicately, “You’re not diagnosed, I take it?”

“Of course not.” Douglas answered, a flash of panic flaring through his marrows at the implications; he tried not to flex his hands around his hat, but he felt the blood seep from his face, “They’d take my license.”

“How did you even get your license in the first place?” Martin seemed to have reached the point of exasperation, but he was being unusually gentle in his approach; even as he fidgeted, there was something oddly comforting in his demeanour, “D-didn’t the psych evaluations pick it up?”

“It?” Douglas repeated, and rolled his eyes, “No, they didn’t, for one very good reason. I cheated.”

“You can’t cheat.” Martin snorted, but he didn’t sound too sure.

“I can.” Douglas replied, allowing himself to feel smug despite the bitter taste on his tongue as he placed a hand over his chest, “Psychological tests rely on one thing, Martin, and that’s honesty. It’s just a case of answering questions in the way that you’re supposed to…don’t tell them if you’re feeling anything out of the ordinary.”

“Then why didn’t you just lie again?” Martin groaned, obviously still put-out about getting in trouble for him, “Put on a smile, charm them w-with your voice and your face – cheat again, like you always do. I mean, if you’ve been swanning through life up ‘til now, why did you make us miss that course?”

“Because I…it’s different when you’re faced with a real person instead of a piece of paper with _ticky_ boxes.” Douglas explained, every word sticking in his throat in rebellion as he tried not to squirm under Martin’s judgement, “They _see_ things.”

“What is there to see?”

“That I’m not…I don’t know if I’m…this is a bad time.” Douglas admitted, dropping his gaze to stare down at the grotty carpet instead of the ever more concerned tilt of Martin’s eyebrows, “I’m…I’m not okay…at least I don’t think I am. The sort of not okay that psychologists _notice_.”

There was no immediate response. When Douglas looked up again, he nearly flinched at the way that Martin was staring at him. He didn’t look angry or upset…he looked tentative and concerned and more than Douglas’ pride could take. Their eyes met, and Martin awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Bipolar.” Martin stated, and he rubbed his hands together, blushing and sniffing in his familiar uncomfortable manner, “That’s um, that’s the one with the ups and down isn’t it?”

“Yes, more or less.” Douglas answered slowly, holding himself very still in the hope that it would make him look as if he weren’t bothered.

“Would you like to tell me some more?” Martin inquired, as if he were discussing the weather, “It’s just…I’m your friend, a-and your Captain, a-and I just delayed a flight and endured Carolyn’s wrath for you.”

“Yes…yes you did.” Douglas acknowledged, “And I am grateful, Martin, I really am.”

“So tell me – t-talk to me.”

“Can’t we just put it behind us? It’s not important-”

“It _is_ important.” Martin snapped ,then took a deep breath to calm himself; is he had noticed Douglas startle, he said nothing of it as he dragged his fingers through his hair and glared across the aisle, “Douglas, you’re telling me you might have an untreated mental disorder, a-and I can’t make you do anything but…I’d at least like to know what was going on with you. You’re my friend.”

That was very true. Douglas hadn’t felt so unsettled in years, but it would have been a lie to say that telling Martin was doing any _real_ harm.

“Yes. Fine…it’s not like what you’re thinking.” Douglas sighed, and he dropped his head into his hands for only a moment before straightening out and unsuccessfully shrugging away the tension in his shoulders, “There’s…bear in mind that this all came from books and not a professional.”

“You wouldn’t have remembered it if it were wrong.” Martin remarked, and something about the way that his lips curled up at the corners and his eyes warmed ever so slightly was…comforting. His faith in him was still there.

“No, I wouldn’t have.” Douglas murmured, gathering his courage before launching into a spiel made up of everything that he had scrabbled together about himself, in the quiet moments when he had been brave enough to look inside his own head and admit that something wasn’t quite ticking the same way as everyone else’s, “It’s…most people think it’s ‘ups and downs’, like you said, and it _is_ , but not one after another. The ups last a long time, and the downs last a long time, and there are long times between each long time. Call them episodes, if you will.”

“How long is a long time?” Martin asked, with the same degree of professional interest that he brought to the flight-manual. He even leaned in across the aisle as if to soak up the information.

“ _Well_ , an up...a manic episode, generally lasts around three months…for _me_.” Douglas explained, watching Martin’s every twitch, overly conscious of the seat, the curve of the walls, everything around him as it creaked, “A down, or a depressive episode lasts around…six months.”

“Six months?” Martin gaped, blinking rapidly, “As in, you’re depressed for six months?”

“Your concern is charming, Martin.” Douglas drawled, folding his hands over his hat so that he couldn’t fiddle, “As charming as your tact.”

“God – sorry- s-sorry.” Martin hastily apologised and raised his hands in surrender, blushing delightfully with guilt as he tried to make amends, “I just…that’s a long time. When, um…when was…hold on. Have you had these, th-these episodes, since I started working at MJN?”

“Perhaps.” Douglas shrugged it off, buoyed somewhat by the way that Martin quailed even when he held all of the cards; he opened his mouth to see if he could brush the matter away completely, but he was cut off.

“No, don’t you talk your way out of this.” Martin returned with a vigour, waggling his finger and adopting his stern ‘captain’s’ voice that never worked; instantly his expression shifted into something more pleading as he continued to try and engage, “I-I’m showing an interest, Douglas – I want to talk – do you talk about this with anyone else?”

“No!” Douglas snapped, sitting forwards to mirror Martin’s posture, face set into grim determination in favour of the sheer panic that tore through his chest as he hissed, “You’re not to tell _anyone_ else!”

“ _Okay!”_ Martin insisted, swallowing hard before carrying on, placing both hands on his chest, “Just…you can talk to me.”

“Why do you want to know?” Douglas demanded, retaking control of the situation as best he could, “It’s in the past.”

“Because I need to know whether you’ve been suffering, or whether you’ve just been an arse.” Martin exclaimed, huffing when Douglas only frowned at him and tugging down the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, “I-if it turns out that all the times you’ve been _awful_ have been episodes, th-then that’s…that means that I…I suddenly forgive you for all of that.”

“I _am_ capable of being an arse without the influence of mental illness.” Douglas retorted, raising his eyebrows and daring Martin to fight back.

“Oh, I _know_.” Martin practically growled, but a moment later he sagged and a smile warmed his face; just as it began to warm Douglas’ own stiff stature, he sighed and said, “Still…you can tell me.”

Spurred on by the encouragement, Douglas settled back in his seat and tried to make himself feel nonchalant. He spoke as if he were relaxed, reading off the charts, but he suspected that Martin could hear the strain in his tone.

“I don’t think I’ve had a depressive episode since before you started working with us.” Douglas thought back, grasping at straws and reviling what _did_ make its way back inside his skull, “No need to look so flattered – I was getting sober, losing my daughter to divorce, looking for a job and unable to find anything but MJN…it was a bad time.”

“For six months? What about…the other ones?”

“The manic episodes…it’s harder to tell.” Douglas closed his eyes as he tipped his head back against the badly padded seat; it was easier this way to seem detached, “I can’t…I can’t really tell until after the event, and by that point…”

“ _Douglas.”_

“I think there was one not long after you arrived…I can’t really remember.” That was true, Douglas could never really remember exactly when his off months were; he just knew that looking back, his behaviour was questionable at best, and worrying, but he had a handle on it most of the time, “I just remember thinking, after that…you remember that trip where we were stuck in Douz?”

“Oh, yeah…you were a bit…odd.” Martin’s voice as soft, reminiscent, nothing like the uncertain prickling that wormed its way through Douglas’ psyche, “I guess, I didn’t know you so well then.”

“No, but, that’s not important.” Douglas waved his hand into the air, confident that Martin would see that and ignore the look on his face, “I just…I remember because Carolyn suggested that we set fire to the manager’s office…and that _stuck_ with me because I…I was _really_ up for that. If she hadn’t said no, I would have done that.”

“That’s insane!”

“I _know_ it’s insane.” Douglas agreed, hating the taste of each syllable that clambered from his throat, “But at the time, I thought it was the best idea ever! You see what it’s like…not having a clue until afterwards…it’s insane.”

“What about other times?”

“I think…possibly around my daughter’s birthday. You remember dropping that bomb on her party?”

“You seemed so confident that it would work though.”

“That’s one of the things…the _symptoms._ Grandiose…blah, blah, blah…”

“No, not blah, blah, blah.” Martin scolded him, “This is important.”

“Fine.” Douglas groaned, then carried on as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “Definitely the thing with the bears.”

“The thing with the bears was reckless, impulsive, thoughtless…and exactly what you’re like in an episode. Isn’t it?” it was almost possible to hear the cogs turned as Martin started to understand. The indignation melted into something indecipherable as the sound of his uniform rustling filled the small space.

“I think you’re starting to understand.” Douglas grumbled, lifting his hat up to rest atop his head, covering his eyes so that when he opened them, all he could see was the hard rim around the edge and a few slim beams of light, “ _Well done_ …although, I still pulled off a complicated manoeuvre.”

“But you’re ill.”

“And no less skilled.” Douglas countered, clinging to his pride while he still could; he pushed back his hat, blinking back the sting of the light, and sat up properly, only to find Martin hunched in his seat, phone in hand, “What are you doing?”

“I’m looking it up. Properly.” Martin replied without raising his eyes from the screen as his thumb scrolled clumsily and the lights illuminated his face from below, “I want to know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“Don’t you mean what _you’re_ dealing with?” Douglas spat.

“No. I-I…I care Douglas.” Martin argued, in the semi-reasonable, semi-petulant manner had he wore so well as he fixed Douglas with a stern glare and continued scrolling, “It’s none of my business what’s going on with you, except I’m your friend, s-so if you’re going through a hard time, well, well I-I-I – I want to know that I can help you. Like you trusted me to help you today.”

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t research bipolar disorder?” Martin paused so that he could raise his eyebrows and purse his lips, “What are you so afraid of?”

Douglas didn’t say a word. What could he say that wouldn’t make Martin think he was ridiculous? Martin loved the book and the book had guidelines…guidelines that Douglas didn’t want anywhere near him.

“Okay, I’ve got a medical page up.” Martin murmured; he sat up straight and held his head high, extending the phone so that he could hold it at arm’s length, “I-I’m going to read this aloud, and you can just nod along.”

“Is that an order, Captain?” Douglas inquired, watching Martin from across the aisle, dreading everything that he was about to hear.

“Yes.” Martin smiled at him, then began reading aloud, chest heaving, expression drooping with every word,  “Okay… _okay_ …depression and mania…a low is… _intense depression and despair_?” he stammered, but when Douglas only glared at him, he carried on, “With…unhappiness, loss of interest in things…restlessness and agitation…loss of self-confidence… _feeling useless and inadequate…_ difficulty concentrating…insomnia and exhaustion _…_ thoughts of suicide? Douglas?”

“That sounds about right.” Douglas drawled, staring down at his fingernails, picking at the side of his thumb and biting the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn’t outwardly react, “Except for the suicidal thoughts.”

“You never talk about it.” Martin bemoaned, eyes wide and watery, “I-if you felt like this w-with me around – you’d tell me? Wouldn’t you?”

“Why? What would you do?”

“I-I-I’d _listen_ – I-I’d sit and listen and be worried about you.” Martin lowered the phone and let his arms flop to his sides in despair; Douglas said nothing, and Martin huffed and rolled his eyes, falling back against the side of his seat, “Fine –I don’t know what I’d do, b-but I’d _be there_.”

“Martin…” Douglas sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Just read the rest of the list if it will make you feel better.”

Martin just stared for a moment, then did as he was told. It was a miracle, really.

“Highs…extreme happiness and elation…happy and irritable…that’s not so bad, I guess.” Martin read out, growing steadily more concerned with every word, “Um…an inflated sense of importance…that is _definitely_ you…lots of new ideas, grandiose and unrealistic plans…inability to sleep…hyper-activity…spur of the moment decisions and recklessness…overly familiar and critical of others…”

“Is that list nearly finished?” Douglas interjected, resisting the temptation to slam his hands over his ears. It was nothing that he hadn’t researched before, but hearing Martin say it was painful.

“I can stop if you like.” Martin offered, then he frowned and tapped the front of his phone, “Actually, yeah…I’m going to stop.” He had the grace to look guilty, “If it helps, I’m not thinking of you any differently. Th-this all seems like _you_ …but…only every now and again like…super-Douglas…”

“Yes, thank you, Martin.” Douglas sighed, hanging on Martin’s every twitch even though he held it in, pretended that he was more interested in the loose threads on the edge of the seat; at least, until he realised that his colleague’s attention was very much still on his phone, “You’re still reading that list. Why are you still reading that list?

“Because it’s got advice about treatment.”

“I don’t want treatment.” Douglas stated calmly and clearly, doing his best not to grit his teeth; this was exactly what he had wanted to avoid, “They’ll take my _license.”_

“I still want to read it.” Martin muttered, otherwise ignoring him as he scrolled and read aloud, “Lithium to help stabilise mood…self-monitoring to avoid stressful situations, which…some believe are triggers for episodes….” He perked up and nearly hopped in his seat as he extended his phone for Douglas to see, “Hey, this bit’s good: ‘it’s helpful if you have at least one person that you can rely on and confide in.’ That’s me, right?”

The way that Martin’s face lit up at the prospect was touching; it made the cockles of Douglas’ heart warm in spite of everything. Of course, he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for Martin to turn against him, but it was…nice while it lasted.

“Are you offering or asking?”

“Both.”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice, is it, Captain?” Douglas smirked, folding his hands over his lap as he cleared his throat, “You’re my confidant now whether I like it or not.”

“Good.” Martin preened, then slipped his phone into his pocket, sat forwards to lessen the space between them, and narrowed his eyes in determination, “In light of that…I think you should get diagnosed. Get diagnosed and get treatment.”

“They’ll take my license!”

“Then let them take it!” Martin countered, more serious than Douglas had ever seen him; he flushed right down to his freckles, but he stood his ground as Douglas frantically shook his head, “Douglas, I care more about you as a friend than a First Officer, which means I’d rather have you at home and healthy than on the flight-deck and unhappy.”

“I don’t want to lose my license.” Douglas repeated, gripped by a sudden wash of fear. When Martin made up his mind, there wasn’t a force on Earth that could stop him. As if in slow motion, Douglas saw the last remnants of structure in his life crumble around him as he was put through a myriad of tests and forced to abandon his career to people that didn’t understand that he _really was_ fine.

Instead of comforting him, Martin rose to his feet and reached for his jacket where he had hooked it over the back of his seat.

“It’s up to you whether you get treatment, but I have to tell Carolyn.” Martin informed him, and then he stepped across the aisle and placed a hand on Douglas’ shoulder, “For your own good. I can’t sit back and watch you be not okay.”

oOoOoOo

Standing in Carolyn’s office and watching her expression shift and change as Martin explained the situation to her was too much. Douglas had answered her questions for only five minutes before abandoning the effort and walking out. Arthur had been there too, and that might even have been harder to endure.

Gone in one fell swoop was his indestructible façade. Nobody was going to believe that anymore. Not once he lost his pilot’s license and accepted unemployment. The only thing he had maintained consistently for years, most of his life in fact, and it was being taken away from him, just like everything else.

If Douglas wasn’t so afraid of just how low he had sunk during his last episode, he would have considered turning back to the drink…but that had been the worst one and he couldn’t risk that again.

So Douglas had revisited the illegal bar, dug out his apple juice, then set up camp in the shade underneath GERTI’s wing.

It was almost peaceful, regardless of Douglas’ inner turmoil, until Arthur appeared out of nowhere and took a seat beside him, near enough that their elbows brushed. It was the quietest that he had ever moved; Douglas hadn’t even heard him approach.

“Hey, Douglas.”

“Hello, Arthur.” Douglas sighed, but shifted to allow Arthur room in the shade, taking a swig from his apple-juice.

“Is it true that there’s something wrong in your brain – not wrong, I mean…iffy?” Arthur asked without any prevarication or attempt to swaddle it in manners; he ducked his head so that he could watch whatever crossed Douglas’ face as he continued, “Because, I sort of understand how that works.”

“I think there is.” Douglas replied with a helpless shrug, and turned his head to offer Arthur a small smile; his boundless innocence was actually refreshing, even if it was just the silence before the storm, “I haven’t had a doctor verify that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t get treated the same when there’s something _iffy_ inside your brain.” Douglas explained, watching as Arthur nodded as if he were listening to every word and understanding it, then as an afterthought he added, “And they’d take my license.”

“Surely flying isn’t as important as being happy.” Arthur reasoned as if it were perfectly obvious.

“You’d be surprised.” Douglas remarked, hastily reshuffling his inner musings so that Arthur’s logic was near the back, where it couldn’t touch his own decisions; it was just _sad_ to think that his life was as simple as happy and employed in two separate boxes, “Nobody’s ever truly happy.”

“Well, I think they are.” Arthur replied, and that was the matter well and truly settled; he lowered his voice to a softer tenor and folded his arms around his knees, “Anyway, I came out here to try and cheer you up, because you looked quite upset and I just wanted you to know that we’re all only wanting you to be okay.”

“I’m flattered.”

“It’s because we all love you.” Arthur explained brightly, nodding to emphasise his point, “You know, I’ve always known that sometimes you’re _really_ cheerful and happy, and other times you’re _really_ grumpy and don’t want to be around us.”

“Have you now?” Douglas inquired, making an effort to be amused and attentive without being condescending; whether he was successful or not, he wasn’t sure, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice, “That’s nice.”

“Yeah. I thought it was just like how I’m always happy. I know that other people aren’t always happy, just like I knew that you’re sometimes _really_ one way or the other.” Arthur rambled, kicking his toes out to touch the sun where it crept under the wing, “That’s just you.”

“That’s just you.” Douglas repeated, and sipped his apple-juice.

“Thing is though, you seem a lot happier, _properly_ happy I mean, when you’re sort of in the middle.” Arthur concluded as if Douglas hadn’t spoken, and for a glimmer of a second, it was almost as if he were being serious and sincere as he met his gaze. He even stopped fidgeting.

“That tends to be how it works.” Douglas acknowledged, as something uncomfortable threatened to prickle at the base of his throat. He had a sneaking suspicion as to where the conversation was heading – damn – they had got to Arthur.

“Is that what the medicine does?” Arthur asked gravely, “Makes sure that you stay sort of in the middle?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Then I think you should take it, Douglas.” Arthur informed him, without a trace of nerves that might be found in anyone else; he even nudged Douglas’ elbow ever so slightly, “Because, even though you’re always _you_ no matter what you’re like…sometimes, when you’re _really_ up or _really_ down, it doesn’t seem very good for you. You do silly things.”

“What sort of silly things?” Douglas asked, giving in to a flicker of concern. What sorts of things _did_ he do? It was hard to tell afterwards what had been acceptable and what hadn’t been; how far over the line did he actually toe?

Probably quite far if even _Arthur_ noticed.

“Like when you do dangerous stuff.” Arthur explained with a careless shrug, as if it were no problem at all, “Or when you pick fights with Martin even though you don’t really mean it.”

“I don’t often mean it.” Douglas admitted, exhaling long enough that he hoped all of his problems would float away with the effort of it; his mood was still low, he was tired and stressed, and rifling through the past wasn’t enjoyable, “I just…he riles me up.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arthur hummed, “And now _he_ knows, and he’s sorry he didn’t notice and just made it worse. He keeps telling Mum that.”

“I don’t want anyone to be sorry.” Douglas told him, staring out over the airfield so that he wouldn’t have to watch Arthur struggle to understand the intricacies of human subtlety; it had been too long of a day, “I just want everyone to forget so that I can get on with my life.”

“Okay.” Arthur replied, “I can’t forget, but I can pretend that I have.”

“No…” Douglas caught him quickly, staring down at his apple juice; that wasn’t what he wanted at all…that would be square one all over again, which never helped anyone, “No, don’t do that.”

Unfortunately, before Arthur could impart any more words of wisdom, Martin appeared under the wing.

“Douglas. Carolyn wants a word.”

oOoOoOo

Carolyn waited until Douglas was seated on the opposite side of her desk before she let rip. There was nothing about her that was out of the ordinary; it was her usual brand of rage, which Douglas was well equipped to deal with.

“Douglas Richardson, you’re an old fool.”

“Oh, hello Carolyn.” Douglas drawled, rapping his nails on the ends of the arms of the hard plastic chair, head held high, back slightly slumped; the perfect balance between attentive and relaxed, cool and casual, “Charmed, as always, to be speaking with you.”

“Don’t you start with me.” Carolyn retorted, curling her hands atop the neatly stacked paperwork on her desk; the wrinkled lines on her face had never been so entrenched in anger as she addressed him, “You’re going to keep your mouth shut and answer when I ask you to talk.”

“As you wish.”

“You’ve thought that you had a mental illness, for _years_ , and you didn’t tell _me_ , your _employer_ this before I let you operate heavy machinery.” Carolyn seethed, visibly trembling with the force of her rage. It was a question, even if she wouldn’t pose it as such.

“I’m perfectly capable-”

“Zip it!” Carolyn snapped and pointed furiously at him; had she been able to reach, her hands would probably have been around his throat, “I know you’re perfectly capable, which is why I’m not angrier than I already am. Do you realise what a serious breach of trust this is?”

“Was that permission to speak?” Douglas inquired in a fit of pique, arching an eyebrow before realising his mistake and giving in; this wasn’t the moment for bickering, “Yes…it’s a breach of trust and I am _terribly_ sorry.”

“How could you go so long without getting treatment?” Carolyn demanded and something in her tone wavered, as if there were a shimmer of concern beneath her irritation. Even her eyes softened imperceptibly as her grimace lessened by a fraction.

“I don’t want to lose my license.” Douglas stated simply, folding his hands together over his knee so that she wouldn’t see them twitch in discomfort. That was the truth. Everything else was mute this far into his life…MJN was all he had left.

“Yes, you keep saying that. Martin keeps saying that.” Carolyn sighed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head in despair; a familiar move, all things considered, “Neither of you seem to realise what a stupid reason that is for rejecting treatment for a disorder.”

“I don’t need-”

“You _do_ need it.” Carolyn insisted, then her eyes fluttered closed for just a moment before she spoke again, more gently; unnaturally so, for a Carolyn, “You need treatment, Douglas, whether your pride can take it or not.”

“It’s not about pride.” Douglas argued, but even he could hear how weak it was.

“If you tell me this is about being afraid of losing yourself I will punch you.” Carolyn informed him; she enunciated every word perfectly, speaking to him as if he were Arthur and needed educating on something painfully simple, “Medication is not the enemy. It is designed to stop you from suffering. You have _been_ suffering and refusing to take medication is only making it worse.”

“But it is allowing me to keep flying, which as the CEO of an airline, you should be heavily invested in-”

“Damn your license!” Carolyn slammed her small fists on the desk, and it actually made Douglas startle, “Let them take it! Just get _help!”_

“Why?” Douglas implored her, feeling more and more like a school-boy with every second that passed. When she laid the matter out like that it seemed so simple but he was stubborn and every fibre of his being was begging him to fight her advice and cling to his own methods.

“Because you matter, Douglas.” Carolyn didn’t sound like she was joking; she didn’t look like she was joking either, and that was enough to make Douglas shut up and listen as something in his chest clenched, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you matter. Your happiness matters. Your mental stability _matters_. I am willing to go without a pilot for a few months if it means that you will _get help_.”

“It might not be a few months.” Douglas’ voice was thin, and he realised after he said it that it wasn’t an argument. It wasn’t even a refusal.

“Maybe not.” Carolyn agreed, nodding solemnly as she made a show of restacking her papers, “However, Martin has informed me that the CAA has a Flight Surgeon General who is allowed to look at the performance of people with bipolar disorder and decide whether they’re fit to fly. So long as you pretend that you’re surprised at your diagnosis, he will look at your many years of good service and deem you fit to fly – license saved.”

“You’re going to lose money.” Douglas remarked…he was giving in. He could feel himself doing it, and it was terrifying.

“I can’t employ you if your job is the only thing stopping you from getting treatment.” Carolyn replied, perfectly reasonably, without a flicker of anxiety about the matter, “I’ve known you for many years now, Douglas, and if going to the doctor’s will make you happier than you have been, I’m all for it.”

“But Carolyn-”

“No buts.” Carolyn interrupted him with a raised hand and a stern glare, “You can’t spend the rest of your life bouncing from one dangerous extreme to the next.”

Douglas didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. All that he was sure of was that he may have just agreed to something that an hour ago he would never have considered…something that could potentially alter the course of the rest of his life.

There was no pretending that there was nothing wrong now…not with an ultimatum like that.

“Don’t say I’ve finally found your mute button.” Carolyn’s voice broke through Douglas’ reverie.

“What if I don’t get my license back?” Douglas was ashamed to say that he croaked, gripping the edge of his chair all the while.

“What do you think we’re going to do?” Carolyn scoffed, eyebrows knitting as she surveyed him, “Leave you at the side of the road? If you don’t get your license, I’ll just have you doing the filing or something equally mundane.”

Instead of answering, Douglas simply lowered his gaze and stared at a corner of her desk. There was nothing that he _could_ have said to vocalise the tangle of emotions inside his skull.

“I will recommend you to a doctor, that way nobody will get suspicious.” Carolyn was talking, but Douglas wasn’t really listening, “I’m sure Martin and Arthur will be happy to hold your hands every step of the way.”

oOoOoOo

It had been months, but it was nice to be back in the First Officer’s seat, with GERTI’s engines grumbling and one of the switches hanging down over his head while another warning light hummed away intermittently. Of course, he wasn’t in uniform and he wasn’t allowed to touch the controls of pain of death (Martin’s rules), but Douglas was glad to be back.

All in all, everything was just as it was supposed to be; comfortable, slightly dull, but pleasant nonetheless.

“So when’s the Flight Surgeon General reviewing your license?” Martin inquired as he signed off over the intercom, flashing Douglas a look that was blatantly an attempt to hide hope behind polite interest.

“Next month.” Douglas replied, as if he hadn’t been crossing the days off on the calendar, steadily trying his best to be as cheerful but tastefully morose as possible; there was really no need as nobody was hiding around the corner judging him, but it was nice to practice for the assessment, “He’s got a busy schedule…and I need to have been on the drugs for a certain amount of time.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Martin smiled tentatively, clumsily adjusting controls that hadn’t done anything for years, “It’s um…it’s been…not the same without you here.”

“Everything will be back to normal soon.” Douglas assured him, “Don’t you worry.”

“It is…you are okay, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am.” Douglas promised, rolling his eyes and plastering on a smirk just to drive the point home.

It was the truth. The mood stabilisers seemed to be doing their job; it was hard to tell, considering that what he was looking for was an absence of an extreme, but…Douglas liked to think that lately, he had been harder to rile, harder to prompt into something reckless without first giving it due thought, and far more comfortable in himself, without either rejecting company altogether or craving it.

Still…time would tell. He wasn’t out of the woods yet…it would take time.

“How do you feel?” Martin asked, blue eyes wandering over Douglas’ face as if he were searching for an inconsistency.

“I don’t feel any different from normal, Martin.” Douglas sighed, warming slightly at feeling like the centre of attention and care for once.

“That’s good, though?” Martin continued, stammering as his tone turned shrill and he cared too much, as always, “Normal is normal, and it’s not really up or down, it’s just normal?”

“Yes, Martin.” Douglas chuckled, and he settled back in his seat to stare out into the sky, through the clouds and the thunderstorm that Martin would panic through in around about half an hour, “Everything is just fine.”


End file.
